


and by a tourney mean a trial

by friendly_ficus



Series: but rosier luck will go with these rich jewels [1]
Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Ravening War, Conspiracy, F/F, First Meetings, Light Angst, Tournaments, i don't know how armor works and i don't plan to learn, still a similar-ish timeframe as canon. very different world.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24659713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendly_ficus/pseuds/friendly_ficus
Summary: Sir Jet of Meringue enters a tourney, shares a dance, and reunites with family.Primsy Coldbottle, Regent of House Cheddar and Duchess of Lacramor, prepares for her wedding.
Relationships: Jet Rocks/Primsy Coldbottle, Liam Wilhelmina Jawbreaker & Jet Rocks
Series: but rosier luck will go with these rich jewels [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782973
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	and by a tourney mean a trial

Three months after her twentieth birthday, Sir Jet of Meringue rolls off of the cot that’s been provided by the great Lacramor estate, already reaching for her armor. She doesn’t sleep with it on these days, not the way she did when she first set out. It’s a risk but not a dare for the universe; former royalty too far down the line of succession for the titles to mean anything hardly makes a tempting target for an assassin.

Her bunkmates, a ragtag collection of knights from some of the smaller Candian provinces, give her nods and greetings that range from friendly to reserved. She’s not particularly close to any of them; she’s traded everything from hair tips with Xavier Licorice to blows with Carob Heartshire, but they’re hardly boon companions. They’re competition, in fact, at this tourney celebrating the marriage of Duchess Primsy Coldbottle.

It doesn’t make them enemies. These days, once you leave the borders of Candia you tend to stick together even if you’re not already close. The seven of them traveled here together, endured seasickness and noodle-octopus attacks; they’ve seen each other vomit and bleed and it’s difficult to be enemies, after that. No, just competition.

Jet likes competition. There’s something to be said for the honor of victory, especially when it comes with a sack of gold or a favor from some Dairy noble. She needs at least one of those things to keep moving forward, to continue ranging beyond Candia making her name known as a knight.

Doing up the sides of her chestplate, Jet tightens the last belt and feels the subtle enchantment activate with the faintest puff of purple energy. Another reason she doesn’t need to wear her armor all night—no one else could feasibly wear it. It  _ knows  _ her.

Ruby had sent it to her for their nineteenth birthday, carried by a courier with a long letter and a shard of rock crystal that allowed them to speak for a brief time before crumbling under whatever magic her sister was working through it.

_ Take care,  _ the letter Jet keeps in her pack says, ink starting to fade.  _ I worry about you, you know.  _

(“I can visit,” Jet had offered, and Ruby had said  _ no  _ before the rock candy reduced itself to dust.)

No time to think about that, though. Jet tugs her gauntlets on and feels the sigil on her right palm, stiff in the center of the leather. She still doesn’t know what it does.

_ The gauntlets—maybe it’s a little rude,  _ the letter says,  _ so only use it when you need it. But if you need it, don’t hesitate.  _

‘When you need it.’ What the hell does that mean, anyway? All that studying with the Archmage and the others is making her sister write vague letters. 

In the doorway, a cheese servant gives a nod of acknowledgement to the room and informs the group that there will be an informal breakfast served in twenty minutes. This evening’s welcome feast will be the fancy affair of the day.

Xavier and Carob start their ‘which Rocks sister would win in a fight’ argument: Jet’s cue to go for a walk. Anonymity is good, most of the time. If they know she’s, if they know she  _ used to be  _ a Rocks, her comrades have never mentioned it. Anonymity is annoying when someone says that Aunt Sapphira couldn’t last three minutes against Citrina.

Ducking under one of the many covered walkways that line the gardens of the estate, Jet pauses before passing an open door. 

“It’s not much longer to wait,” someone is saying, before another shushes him.

“Idiot!” the second voice exclaims. “Do you have a thought in your head? Go and shut the door!”

Jet takes a few quiet steps to the side, concealing herself behind a pillar and securing a partial view of the door. No need for a confrontation before breakfast, after all.

A cube of cheese comes trotting to the doorway and slams it shut without looking out into the hall or the gardens beyond. She only catches a glimpse of it—his surcoat is emblazoned with the crest of House Bleu.

She stays behind the pillar for another few moments, suddenly aware that there are half a hundred ways for this tournament to go wrong.

\---

Primsy Coldbottle, Regent of House Cheddar and Duchess of Lacramor, perches delicately on a milksilk tuffet and coos over a parade of wedding gifts. Her attendants flitter around her, presenting bolts of cloth and lovely bits of jewelry for inspection. It’s the most cosmopolitan Primsy’s ever felt—gifts have come from as far as Ceresia, all to celebrate her coming marriage.

It’s rare for this many to gather and she finds she likes the estate full of guests, all with interesting stories about lands she’s never been able to see. She smiles at their fashions, at the collection of Fructeran handkerchiefs one of her ladies gushes over, at the Vegetanian tapestry that depicts their charming Bulb.

Up one of the sleeves of her day dress is Annabelle’s wedding present: a dagger etched with their house words in tiny lettering. Primsy had smiled to get that too.

Leaning against the back wall, said Annabelle Cheddar watches her baby cousin, and the windows, and the doorways. Primsy at eighteen is still a little wide-eyed, still a little awed by what the world can be. She needs someone to look out for her.

Annabelle at eighteen had been a guest at the Court of Uvano, an exile from the very Islands whose Duchess she now guards. This is better, even if Primsy is easily impressed by the purple rock-candy chess set sent by Queen Rococoa of Candia. 

Primsy has not, since becoming Regent, had to be afraid. She hasn’t had to watch over her shoulder or use a food taster or strike up a friendship with her headsman. Annabelle isn’t sure Primsy knows they  _ have  _ a headsman, for all that her education must’ve covered it. No, her wide eyes, her innocent joy—Annabelle has bought these things with blood. 

She has a dozen letters from Fructeran nobles in the false drawer of her bureau, trading contracts and old promises; they hadn’t helped her retake the Dairy Islands for  _ free,  _ after all. She has the blood of some of her countrymen on her hands, as traitorous as they can be. And she has a watchful eye, always.

The world is hard and cruel. Annabelle loves her cousin.

“Look!” Primsy exclaims, “From your friend, the Countess!”

So Plumbeline  _ had  _ sent a gift: a bolt of wine-purple velvet, heavier cloth than Primsy usually wears. Finer, too. Impractical.

Annabelle loves her cousin. She manages to smile and nod.

\---

Jet spends the rest of the day sparring with Adriani Baklava and gets trounced no less than three times, her mind continuing to replay the conversation she overheard in the morning. 

“You’re  _ distracted,  _ Jet Fleetfoot,” her fellow knight teases at one point. “Come on, where’s that speed you make your name on, huh? Leave it in port?”

Jet huffs, stepping back and ending their spar with a wave of her hand. “Just, thoughts.”

“Nervous for the tournament, then. Don’t worry, I’ll leave a little glory for you.”

“Not if you lose it all on the dancefloor tonight,” Carob calls from the other end of the yard, and Adriani flips him off.

“Think I’m done for today,” Jet announces with a rueful smile. “Gotta make myself pretty and who knows how long  _ that’s  _ gonna take.”

“Eh, it’ll take Carob years longer than it’ll take you. He’s learned to stop trying—”

“Oh those are  _ fighting words,  _ Baklava—”

The familiar clashing of candysteel rings in Jet’s ears as she makes her way back to their lodging. Since leaving home, her formalwear options have simplified considerably. Nothing about the deep red coat and high-waisted black pants screams royalty the way the outfits of her youth had, embroidery at the hem a handspan wide. No, it’s easy to get ready, pulling on a shirt that’s still  _ fairly  _ white and lacing up her boots. She doesn’t need this much time to prepare.

She uses it to think. And think. And think herself in circles, until Adriani and the others pull her into their contingent and through a dozen hallways to the great ballroom, half of which has been filled with long tables of food.

This is where Jet sees Duchess Primsy Coldbottle for the first time, sitting among her fellows. The Duchess is at the high table, smiling and untroubled by the many guards her fiancé has posted along one wall. Jet’s breath catches for a second in her throat when the Duchess stands and toasts them, and she almost doesn’t join the cheer that goes up.

She  _ meets  _ Duchess Primsy Coldbottle for the first time an hour into the same feast, when they somehow end up next to each other a dozen feet from the dancefloor. Jet has no idea how she’s gotten herself into this position; courtiers have been jockeying for the Duchess’ attention all night.

Duchess Coldbottle looks up from where she’s watching the dancing with bright eyes and pins Jet in place with a glance.

Jet swallows and sketches a bow in the Candian style, feels at ease when the Duchess curtseys in the same fashion.

“Sir Jet of Meringue, Duchess,” she introduces herself, something stirring in her heart. In another life, they could’ve been equals. In this one, she sticks to the script. “You have my deepest congratulations for your upcoming marriage.”

“You are kind, Sir Jet,” the Duchess says. “Does your kindness extend to offering me a dance? They are playing the Candian Waltz, next.”

“I would be honored, Duchess,” Jet manages, because she can’t _refuse._ Who refuses a bride two days before her wedding? “I’m a little out of practice in the ballroom—”

“I love to dance,” Primsy tells her, a touch of earnestness breaking through her otherwise impeccable decorum. “I don’t mind it if you’re clumsy.”

So when the strings start the next song, they dance. It’s entirely proper, the steps coming back to Jet like she’s fourteen and suffering through her lessons again. 

“You must not get many opportunities to dance, Sir Jet,” the Duchess says quietly, as they glide through the next turn. “I hope you don’t miss it too much. It’d be sad, I think, if I had to quit dancing.”

“Well.” Jet blinks, absolutely thrown for a loop. “It makes a difference when you choose to stop.”

No one ever mentions Jet’s life before her knighthood. Not even in brief allusion, if that’s what the Duchess is doing. It’s just not something people talk about, at least to her face. 

“Of course,” the Duchess murmurs, raising her voice slightly as they separate, the song ending. “Thank you for the dance.”

“It was my honor,” Jet says, feeling a little like she’s just been hit over the head.

When she leaves the floor, the Duchess whirling with some noble or other, Jet looks up and sees a surprisingly familiar face.

\---

Liam Wilhelmina Jawbreaker has entered the party with a contingent of  _ actual  _ Candian nobility, minor as they might be. He meets Jet’s gaze across the crowded room, opens his mouth before she makes a determined shushing gesture. He closes it. He keeps it closed even as she gets what she hopes is a subtle grip on his elbow and drags him into a side hallway, a heavy door closing between them and the party.

“What are you  _ doing  _ here?” she hisses. “Where’s Preston? Why didn’t I see you here earlier, when the official delegation arrived?”

“Okay  _ first,”  _ her cousin begins, “Preston’s back home, he’s got this new gig guarding one of the mountain shrines. I really miss him, thanks for bringing it up.  _ Second,  _ you didn’t see me earlier because I got here just now. Like, earlier today.”

“And you’re here  _ because?” _

“Well I’m not here to bother you; I didn’t even know you were gonna  _ be  _ here. I’m here for my brother,” he says, frowning. One of his hands brushes the crossbow at his side, a luxury his name allows him. Jet didn’t dare to show up armed this evening.

Jet opens her mouth to ask him something else when there’s a sound, a boot scraping against the stone floor. They both throw themselves against the far wall like they’re eleven and ducking her mother’s watchful eye again. Liam mutters something Jet can’t make out and the shadows on the wall get thicker, pull around them both like a blanket.

Someone says something Jet doesn’t recognize as they walk down the hallway, Liam tilting his head to the side. 

“Fructerano,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. Even the sound is muffled by the shadows encasing them. “Something about waiting for  _ it  _ to happen. A signal, I think.”

An answering voice hisses a curse in Lacra. It means something about spoiling, Jet thinks, but Ruby’d been the one to pay attention in Lacra lessons.

Something is very wrong here. Jet and Liam wait until the voices pass, breathing shallow and quiet. Once the footsteps have faded entirely, Liam sighs and the shadows do too, dissolving back into nothingness.

“Well,” he offers, “shit.”

“Is this why you’re here?” Jet demands. “Some kind of, I don’t know. Some kind of something?”

“I’m here to keep my brother alive, actually. My dad sent me to do it. So no, it doesn’t have anything to do with some weird conspiracy.”

“You don’t sound that concerned.”

“Well, if he wants to be alive, he should be looking after himself already. I’m not super worried about it—my dad has a lot of kids, you know?” There’s something very bitter in Liam’s voice. “If he loses one, hey, it could be worse.”

“You’ve changed,” Jet observes.

“Yeah, a few years will do that to you.”

He and Jet, close as they might have been once, haven’t seen each other in four years. Haven’t written in three. He stayed in Meringue for a few years when she was young, some exchange of favors between their mothers. Jet tries not to think about Meringue too much, to be honest.

(Preston had been a piglet then, trundling after Liam with all the enthusiasm in the world. Ruby had been a readily-available confidant. Jet had led their games in the courtyard and Liam had fallen in easily, had fit into their lives like a puzzle piece. Jet tries not to think about Meringue.)

“I guess it’s been a while,” she says, after a beat.

“Yeah,” he sighs, and she knows he’s remembering the same thing she is.

When Aunt Lazuli had called Ruby away to study, Liam had gone home as well and Jet had been left behind, sixteen and furiously bitter and furiously alone and furious with the whole world. She’d renounced all claim to the Rocks name two years later in a letter to Aunt Rococoa and received a knighthood she hadn’t asked for in return.

Well, maybe Liam’s remembering whatever happened to him since then, not her. It doesn’t matter anyway.

“What should we do?”

“I don’t know,” he groans. “We don’t really know anything, you know? I guess just tournament-as-usual.”

“Right. Fight casual.”

“Yeah.”

“We should keep an eye out, though,” Jet says, her own frown in place. “The Duchess seems nice—I don’t want something to ruin her wedding if we can help it.”

Liam looks at her for a long minute before shaking his head. But he agrees, when they part for the night, to keep his eyes open.

**Author's Note:**

> hey what’s up folks this is the first installment in this weird AU i’ve been daydreaming for a while. the series title is a pull from The Last Tournament, the Tennyson poem.   
> this particular story is set in a kinda similar time as canon (two years later but in the grand scheme of things what’s two years y’know?) and started as an excuse to write a jetprimsy meeting at a tourney (but not the tourney they actually met at) and evolved from there. i have a few other ideas simmering for this AU, but updates to the series as a whole will probably be kind of sporadic and also won’t be chronological - think stories in the same setting, but not necessarily tied to the same plotline of this fic. still, i thought this was fun and i wanted to share the first chapter as soon as it was done, so i am. honestly it’s not a friendly_ficus au unless i have a lot of outlines and not a lot of patience to actually write everything out in advance.  
> i hope you enjoyed it!! leave a comment and let me know what you think! :)


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